


Praise song for every hand-lettered sign

by tessaquayle



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: American Politics, F/M, Photography, Romance, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 08:49:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16699267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessaquayle/pseuds/tessaquayle
Summary: spoiler alert: democracy doesn't die in darkness, but comes back from the dead





	Praise song for every hand-lettered sign

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Merger_She_Wrote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merger_She_Wrote/gifts).



Julia pulled the knit hat over her ears, pearly pink with cold and matching the worn wool. Leaning against the marble column, she blew into each icy fist and watched her breath waft in the cold November air before gripping her camera to twist off the 35mm lens. As she reached into her square leather bag to exchange the lens, fingering the chrome of the 50mm, she felt a heavy warmth against her leg.

She looked down and spotted Silver - the First Cat - her deep purr reverberating through her dense body and into Julia’s jeans. Silver’s stubby white paws peeked out from the lush coat of grey fur, her lifted tail a plume. Before Julia could put away her gear to scoop up the cat, a baritone voice boomed from a distance.

“Poehler!” She saw a figure in a reflective running vest, long tights, shorts, and a tattered t-shirt waving happily at her. From a distance, two large men trailed behind in black tracksuits like shadows. He slowed to a jog as he neared, winced presumably at his left knee, its orthopedic deficits minutely chronicled in the Post, even meriting occasional mentions in the Grey Lady.

He regarded her inquisitively, panting: “What’re you doing here?”

Silver sauntered over to him, stretching herself against the taut curve of his muscled calf. He swiftly crouched down to hug the cat, his long fingers stroking her downy chest and she licked the base of his thumb. Julia instinctively raised the camera to her face, clicking at the image of the president kneeling by his cuddly pet, his tousled salt and pepper hair, the ends darkened wet with sweat, filling the frame, a perfect shot.

“I just wanted to check out the lighting before the ceremony,” Julia replied casually, tucking her camera into the bag. The pardon of the Thanksgiving turkey was scheduled later that day. A plump turkey would be trotted out, its rainbow-painted snood drooping and darting beady eyes oblivious to its fate and circumstance.

“The kids are excited about this event,” he stood up, hands on his waist, and flashed her a wide grin that made him impossibly young to be the leader of the free world. “I hope you’re coming to dinner tonight.”

“Yes,” afraid of sounding a bit too eager, she quickly added: “Official duty and all.”

“Aw come on, it’s not just official business. It’s Thanksgiving!” he insisted. “You gotta stay for dessert. I convinced the kitchen staff to let me make my famous pecan bourbon pie. With pecans from El Paso.”

“You had me at bourbon,” Julia smiled, warmed by the prospect of the rich dessert, bourbon a dark gold in a heavy tumbler, the light in the President’s dark eyes.

 

***

 

Vivian watched Gareth bring her coffee and a thick, mysterious-looking rectangular packet. He had gotten up early that morning to check the downstairs mailbox she neglected and was already half dressed for work, a buttoned white collared shirt neatly tucked into dark navy trousers, his jacket and tie in the bedroom still hanging from her mirror. “DO NOT BEND” in block print was red-stamped on the manila and black wavy stripes filled the upper corner. She slowly sliced the side of the envelope with a brass letter opener, fashioned like a fang, and peeled away the bubble wrap, popping as it revealed a card and framed photograph.

Vivian chuckled softly at the curlicue scrawl inked on the card.

_“Vivi -_

_When we set out to fuck the patriarchy, we didn’t mean for you to take it literally._

_You are sorely missed. When are you coming home? Will we ever meet Old British Dude?_

_Enclosed is a picture from inauguration. It needs to occupy a spot on your piano._

_Happy Thanksgiving (and yes, the WH turkey lived to gobble another day),_

_Jules”_

She failed to suppress a giggle as Gareth leaned over to study the picture more closely: Vivian in a sparkling royal blue gown with a plunging neckline and a tall, boyishly handsome man in a smart tux in black tie. His arm was draped around her, his large hand grasping the side of her bare shoulder, matching incandescent smiles beaming into the camera.

He cocked his head to the side and muttered, “That’s quite a dress. I didn’t realize you were such close friends with the President.”

“I’m not - Julia is. She’s the lead White House photographer and took this at one of the inaugural balls.”

Gareth countered: “So he just seeks out pretty voters on the day he’s sworn in? What does his wife have to say about that?”

“Oh stop,” she bristled, carefully expanding the velvety easel behind the photograph, letting it stand on the table top. “He’s just generous with his time. Though I did work my ass off for his campaign. And a few good friends are now in the administration. Marisa heads the Department of Justice. And Amy - another Amy - she’s the first psychiatrist to be Surgeon General.”

“Is his cabinet all women?”

“Mostly,” she replied, folding her arms, slightly irritated at his tone. “No one says anything when cabinets are majority men.”

“You’re blushing,” Gareth said, smiling at her.

“What?” Vivian feigned surprise and felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

“You adore him.”

“I adore his policies,” she huffed. “You don’t get it. You can’t imagine how … appealing it is when someone champions your right to control your own body. And when someone stands up for the voiceless and most marginalized in our society.”

“You Americans always want to fall in love with your politicians.”

“That’s rich, coming from someone who probably fantasized about Thatcher.”

“That’s brutal, even for you,” Gareth shot back.

“Brutal? Or politically incorrect?” Vivian winked, finally taking the cup of coffee meant for her from his hands, and enjoying a long sip.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the poem “Praise Song for the Day” by Elizabeth Alexander – it was read at Barack Obama’s 2009 Presidential Inauguration
> 
> A gift fic for the witty, talented, gorgeous Jules who inspired this as much as Beto did
> 
> Giving thanks to middlemarch whose writing is unparalleled 
> 
> A certain medium post was also a motivating force behind this drabble: https://medium.com/@BetoORourke/i-woke-up-after-a-good-nights-sleep-9999308c103e
> 
> Congressman O’Rourke does have a cat named Silver
> 
> The last line snarks at Ralph Fiennes’ misguided take on political correctness (from this interview that confirms his return as Gareth Mallory in Bond25): https://www.thejackalmagazine.com/ralph-fiennes-interview/
> 
> All the Mary Sues showed up in this fic. Shamelessly, joyously so.


End file.
